


the little things

by escherzo



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (YMMV - you might read it as CNC), Age Play, Consensual Dubious Consent, Daddy Kink, Developing Relationship, Grinding, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Trans Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, age play as in 'jon is pretending to be Fairly Young within scene context', i don't know how to tag 'jon grinds on a plushie', innocence kink, some non-sexual age play also, the tiniest mention of 'daddy' as an incest kink thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-23 08:41:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30052830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/escherzo/pseuds/escherzo
Summary: “Is it that you want to be—little?” Martin asks. He has a distant memory of seeing something like this online, once or twice, although he doesn't think that was in a sexual context.He can just barely see the way Jon's face twists in the low light. “Yes and no. I think given my—complicated relationship with sexuality sometimes it's easier to pretend I know nothing about it. That I'm of an age where I wouldn't beexpectedto know anything about it, and that someone I trust is touching me in ways that feel good, but aren't something I understand. And sometimes it's just—nice to feel small and taken care of. I know that's all... a bit much to ask for.”
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 17
Kudos: 114





	the little things

**Author's Note:**

> mind the tags please! as mentioned, jon is pretending to be--really pretty young, in the context of the two scenes. there's some implications of littlespace outside the sex scenes, but i am going for 'he is acting' w/in the scene not 'he's having sex while in littlespace' (tho I know there are some people who do do that). you could plausibly read it that way, though, so if it's something you're sensitive to, probably best to give this one a pass. 
> 
> inspired by everyone in the server going buckwild for jmart ageplay for like, three days straight, you are all legends, thank you ♥

Jon is asleep at his desk again.

It's past midnight, and Martin's own eyes are heavy with sleep, his steps stumbling and clumsy as he trudges across the bare wooden floors of the Archives in socked feet, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders to keep the chill away. There is nothing to do here _but_ wander, after hours, apart from going through the Discredited Bin in Artefact Storage to find something to read. There is still a light on in Jon's office as he passes it, and he frowns, prodding at the door to test it. It's not locked. He pushes it open as quietly as he can and squints into the room, the low light from Jon's desk lamp the only thing illuminating, and at Jon's desk he sees a familiar figure face-down and snoring gently onto a stack of papers. Martin finds himself caught between a small, soft warmth at the sight of him and a budding exasperation. Jon's glasses are askew, pressed into the desk at a strange angle, and Martin can already see the red marks Jon will have in the morning if he stays in this position. 

“Jon,” he says softly, testing, trying to see if Jon has only just fallen asleep and can be convinced to get up and take the tube home, and Jon snores softly in response. Martin sighs. It's so much easier to like Jon like this. When his face softens with sleep, he looks closer to his real age than the straight-laced, stuck-up persona he puts on during the day that seems to age him by a decade. When he's not shouting at Martin for doing something wrong.

He's been gentler recently. Since Martin moved into the Archives. Or at least, less likely to yell, but part of that is that Martin has been staying late too, putting in more hours, doing what he can to help pull them out of this mess because there's very little else to do when he has to live at work. With the hours Jon works, it's nearly like they're living together. He knows what Jon eats for dinner and the way his face smooths out in his sleep and the way he sneaks out when he thinks everyone else is gone to have a cigarette, back pressed to the building, trying to hide from the world and his responsibilities. 

Martin moves forward and carefully, so carefully, slides Jon's glasses off his face and sets them onto the desk in front of him and then looks down at Jon again. At the thinness of his button-down shirt and the way he is curled in tightly on himself like he's trying to ward off the cold. He sighs and takes his blanket off his shoulders and wraps it around Jon's instead, hoping that the soft warmth of it will lull him into better sleep. He can see the way Jon's eyelids twitch, the faint crease of his brow like he's having a nightmare.

“Mm?” Jon mumbles, and he cracks one eye open just a little to peer blearily up at Martin without his glasses. 

“You, um, you fell asleep at your desk,” Martin says, scratching the back of his neck nervously, hoping he hasn't overstepped. Jon takes a moment to think about that, blinking slowly like he's still not fully awake, and then he curls into the blanket wrapped around him further and says, in a voice so much softer and sweeter than the one Martin is used to, “'s soft.” He smiles, actually smiles, and then closes his eyes and puts his head back down onto the desk. 

That's the first time. Martin doesn't think anything of it at first, other than the hot rush inside him of being able to take _care_ of Jon and having Jon accept it. 

*

Jon is, in many ways, a bit like a stray cat, Martin thinks, in the weeks that follow. He's reflexively prickly and snappish, halfway to a hiss most of the time, and he hunches in on himself like it's either do that or lash out at the people around him. And at the same time, there are little moments Martin keeps finding where he can see something softer underneath. Something he can tame. Little snatches of the Jon that smiled at Martin and cuddled in close to a soft blanket like a tired child. A feral cat curled into a lap and contentedly purring, finally having found a safe place to rest. 

Not that he's thinking about Jon in his lap. Much. 

… If he's honest with himself, he's thinking about Jon in his lap rather a lot. Or at least, of getting that soft, contented response again, and Jon is so easy to take care of. He tries not to overdo it, doesn't want to be—a mother hen, or annoying, or push so far that Jon will stop responding to it, but he brings Jon tea and wraps a blanket around his shoulders when he's half asleep at his desk at night, and, sometimes, buys two of his lunch and leaves one on Jon's desk in the hopes that it will be enough to get Jon to eat.

When he was very young, there was a stray cat that came around his house, and the key, he found, in the slow weeks of trying to win it over, was to let it engage on its own terms. Leaving it food and giving it the choice to take it or not, waiting until it approached him to try and pet it rather than trying to get close on his own. His mother had hated the cat, and had told him off when she discovered he'd been taming it, yelling about fleas and diseases, but he remembers the feeling of when it finally started to come close to him and butt its little fuzzy head against his hand. The wonder bubbling up in him that it had accepted him. 

Jon brings out too many feelings in him. The desire to take care of him is first and foremost, of course, but under that, the more Jon accepts what he is given the more Martin gets lost in the desire to put Jon under his hand and take care of him in a very different sort of way. Jon is so easy for praise, Martin discovers. He tells Jon, so softly, _good_ when he comes back and finds that Jon has eaten the lunch left for him and he can see that warm, dazed look in Jon's eyes again, and he thinks about it for days after. He's always had a thing for control. That's not new either. What is new is the intensity of it directed at this specific person. 

It's not easy, of course. Not with Jon growing increasingly paranoid, a scarred mess that twitches at the slightest sound, but he is used to skittish. He knows how to deal with that. And when he finally confesses to Jon that he's not qualified to work at the Institute, the little knot of anxiety he carries with him in his chest every day loosens a little, and it's easier to smile at Jon and try to guide him away from the destructive paths he's trying to throw himself down. 

The intervention wasn't great, but it was... necessary.

*

When Martin finds Jon asleep at his desk in the morning three days in a row, he makes a decision. It's been an awful couple of months—first Jon was on the run and missing and Martin spent weeks arguing with Tim about if he was a murderer, and then he disappeared without explanation for a month and came back terrified of the slightest sound, and now, he is living at work again. The bags under his eyes are deeper than Martin has ever seen them, dark purple bruises that never seem to fade. 

“Jon,” Martin says gently, tucking the blanket wrapped around Jon's shoulders in tighter. “Jon, hey, come on, it's morning.”

“Mm?” Jon asks, pressing into the touch for just a moment until he seems to blink back into awareness and sits up straight. “Ah. I, sorry, I didn't know you were in yet.”

Martin hesitates. He doesn't know of a polite way to ask this, but he _has_ to ask. “Do you have somewhere to go? I know you had a flat, but you've been gone so much, and I don't think landlords care much about if you've been—kidnapped by clowns, Christ, can't believe I have to say that part, and I just. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Jon is quiet for a long moment. “No,” he admits finally. “I don't have anywhere to go. I should sleep on the cot, at least, but I keep forgetting.” He runs a hand through his hair, sighing, and then hunches back in on himself in a way that makes Martin's back ache in sympathy. 

“You can stay with me? If you want. It wouldn't be any trouble or anything; it's not a very big flat, but I'm sure the couch is better than sleeping in your office at least?” Martin offers all in a rush and Jon smiles at him, just a little, so exhausted all the fight has left him. And so after work, Martin finds himself in one of the back rooms of the Archives helping Jon pile everything he owns up so they can take it home to Martin's flat. 

He has so few belongings. It makes Martin's heart hurt, thinking of his younger days, constantly moving from house to worse house as his mother bounced in and out of work after his father left and before she got too sick to do it. He'd done two moves with every worldly possession he had in a single suitcase, by the end. Jon reminds him of that a bit. He has a laptop, and some changes of clothes, and a small handful of chipped old mugs with sentimental value stored away in the Archives breakroom, and absolutely nothing else. If he has hobbies outside of work, or any past he wants to hold onto, Martin can't tell. 

It's strange at first, having Jon in his space. 

He's so used to the solitude of his own flat, so used to the creak of the floorboards and the distant chatter of his neighbors being the only background noise of his life when he's home, and Jon is not a loud person to live with, but Martin finds himself so very _aware_ of him. Of the way he slowly settles into the space, his clothes moving from a neat pile beside the couch into a separate portion of Martin's closet. Of the way Martin slowly grows used to having two to cook for instead of one. Jon cooks too, sometimes, but seems to like it better when Martin does it, and sometimes, Jon will look at him with big, wide eyes and a soft little smile and say “thank you” like a secret, after. 

He gets much better at cooking. 

It's a struggle to not reach out and pull Jon closer to him. To not kiss him. He thinks about it all the time now that Jon is in his space; Jon is still so easy to take care of. Martin finds him asleep on the couch and wraps a blanket around his shoulders and he melts into it. Martin gives him the slightest praise for helping keep the flat clean, or cooking dinner, and Jon responds to it so well. It makes his blood burn with it. Makes him get lost in thoughts of putting Jon on his knees for him, or wrapping him up in blankets on the couch and feeding him out of the palm of his hand as he praises Jon for being such a good boy to allow him. Jon can be so soft and sweet. It seems like he goes to a different place when Martin praises him, the years of tension on his face melting away until he looks so young it makes Martin's heart hurt with it. 

He buys the stuffed bear entirely on impulse. Jon curls up on the couch at night with his arms wrapped tight to his chest like he is seeking out a hug that no one will give him, and Martin knows bits and pieces of his childhood from what Jon has told him, knows that his only caretaker was--distant, and so in the absence of Martin being able to curl around him and keep him safe in the night—a boundary that he's not sure how to cross just yet—he wants to give him something. He is at the shops one evening picking up groceries and sees the bear in a toy shop window, soft and plush and big enough to give a full-body hug to, and he buys it, thinking of Jon's empty arms and how cold he always looks even when Martin wraps him in blankets.

“What's this?” Jon asks, raising an eyebrow at it when he discovers it sitting on the edge of the couch, and Martin tries to stammer through an explanation, because there is something sharp and nervous to Jon's tone, but then Jon reaches out and gives the teddy an experimental pet and his eyes go soft. He says, in a voice that sounds so wondering and lost, “oh, it's... it's so soft.” 

“Do you like it?” Martin asks shyly, knowing just how weird this is – giving his thirty year old boss a stuffed animal as a gift. Knowing that if there is a line here, he has just taken a step over it. 

Jon doesn't answer and doesn't look at him, his face faintly red, and Martin leaves him with it. Letting him test the waters. If he wants to reach out and take it, Martin won't stop him, but he doesn't want to push, either. 

When he walks past the couch later that night and sees Jon asleep, the bear clutched tightly in his arms, he can't help but smile at it and make sure both Jon and the bear are properly tucked in, the blankets snug around the two of them to ward off the evening chill. 

*

He's shy about it at first. Only holds it to sleep at night, puts it to the side on the couch for the rest of the day and pointedly does not look at it, but over time, he'll reach for it at other times too. When he and Martin are on the couch together, watching something, he'll wrap his arms around it and scoot a little closer, and Martin wants to kiss him for it so badly he aches with it. Wants to keep taking care of him so he can see that little smile it brings out. 

Sometimes, Martin will put on a show that's just for Jon and let him snuggle up on the couch with all of the blankets stolen from Martin's bed nestled around him, and Jon will rest his head on the bear and look away when Martin tries to meet his eyes, a little flush to his cheeks. It's cute. Jon's _cute_. Martin loses himself in how delightful he finds this discovery; it's easier than thinking about the looming threat of the Unknowing and what that will mean for the two of them. 

*

He looks at the bear on his couch more times than he cares to admit when Jon is in the hospital. Wonders if bringing it might—help draw Jon back to the world somehow. He tries it once. It doesn't help. 

He keeps it anyway. If nothing else, when Jon comes back—and he _will_ come back, Martin tells himself that every day as he sits by Jon's bedside, watching the jagged waves of Jon's brain activity and the aching silence where the beep of a heart monitor should be—he wants Jon to be able to have it.

Everything goes wrong after that, of course. It always does. That is just sort of how his life works. The bear ends up forgotten on the couch in a flat he doesn't really engage with anymore, past using it to sleep.

*

“We have to _go_ ,” Martin says frantically, wringing his hands together and looking in on his flat, so overwhelmed with the sudden sensations, the sudden ability to feel anything, that all he is is caught in a loop of panic. “What do we do?” He has to—he has to--

“Grab anything you'll need,” Jon tells him in a low, steady voice, with the same gentleness behind it as when he led Martin out of the Lonely. His eyes are glowing faintly green. “Put it in a bag. There's a car outside that we can take – it won't be missed, and we can take it north. There's an old safehouse of Daisy's up there. I know the way. It's okay. I have you.” 

Martin nods, gathering himself, and rushes into his room to start throwing things into a bag without thinking. Mindlessly putting his life into two suitcases. Grabbing anything of Jon's he can see to bring back. Jon has already gone through the contents of the bathroom when he gets back and he takes the clothes gratefully and stuffs them into his bag, and on top of that, after a moment's hesitation, he snatches the bear off the couch and shoves it into the remaining space at the top of the duffle as though he is expecting Martin to tell him _no_. He shares a quick, flushed look with Martin, and then closes his eyes. 

“Alright,” he says, Knowing what they've forgotten and how much time they have to leave. “Let's go.” Jon takes Martin's hand again, fingers locked tight in his, and he does not let Martin out of his sight the whole drive up to Scotland. 

Night has already fallen when they finally make it the last of the way up the old dirt road to the house. It's nothing much – a one story little stone building with crooked shutters and a door that takes three tries to open because it's stuck with age, and the inside smells overwhelmingly of dust, but Jon Knows that it is safe and no one is immediately behind them, and Martin will take that for now. They curl up in the one old, rickety bed together, exhausted, and Martin wraps his arms tight around Jon and prays this is not a dream the Lonely is giving him only to snatch it away. 

*

“Is this alright?” Jon asks, one morning, as the sunlight streams in on the two of them, gently warming their faces as they shift and stir in the mess of old sheets. He leans in close, and his smile is just for Martin. They've not talked about what it all means, yet, not really, what it meant that it was Jon who was able to draw Martin back into the world, but when Martin nods, Jon leans in and softly kisses him, just a quick, chaste peck with all the warmth and love in the world behind it, it feels like the most natural thing in the world, and the small knot of ice in Martin's heart slowly begins to drip and melt away into nothing. 

He's affectionate. A stray cat that has found a forever home, eager to sprawl out on laps and cuddle and be soft. He butts his head up against Martin sometimes like he really is a cat, and it makes Martin laugh, now that he is remembering how to do it.

Jon still likes to be praised. That part has not changed; he likes soft, affectionate words and gentle caretaking hands, and as the numb parts of Martin slowly start to reawaken to sensation, he aches with that. Martin kisses Jon long and slow, Jon's mouth hot against his own, and Jon squirms in place as Martin murmurs, “ _good boy_ ” against his lips, and it takes nothing at all to answer when Jon reaches out and pulls him down onto the bed. 

*

“Jon?” Martin calls as he pushes through the front door, groceries under one arm and an envelope of fresh statements under the other, and Jon does not answer. He is _here_ , in the house; even with all of this time apart from the Lonely Martin still has a visceral a sense of when he is not alone in a space, but he isn't answering, and so Martin sets his things down on the table and looks over to the couch in front of the fire. Jon sometimes sleeps there during the day, curled up with his bear wrapped tightly in his arms, his brow knitted with nightmares, but there is no sign of him there. 

The door to the bedroom is half-cracked, and Martin hears Jon before he sees him. Jon is spread out on the sheets wearing nothing but his pants. His face is red, and with every movement of his hips, he lets out small, desperate little huffing breaths, and Martin can see the way the beads of sweat roll down the dip in his bare back. It's what's between his legs that catches Martin's attention the most. Squeezed between his thighs is the bear, a hand on top of it to hold it steady as he humps forward desperately into its soft, plush body. All of Martin's blood rushes south at once, and he has to press a hand over his cock to calm himself at the sight before stepping in properly. He's caught for a long moment, watching, unsure if he should leave and pretend he hasn't seen this or if he can reach out for Jon. 

“Jon?” Martin asks finally, waiting for Jon to freeze, to stop humping the stuffed bear and look at him, flushed, pretending that nothing has happened. Jon doesn't. He looks up at Martin, and his eyes are wide and unfocused, all pupil, and he pushes up harder into the bear between his legs with a soft, plaintive little moan.

“Oh,” Martin says softly, staring, and he moves closer entirely without meaning to. His eyes following the dip of Jon's hips as he fucks against the stuffed toy harder, letting himself feel it, and as he gets close he can watch the way the muscles in Jon's thighs work as he squeezes the bear tight. “Does it feel good?” he asks, softly, not reaching out to touch, because Jon hasn't said he can yet, but desperately wanting to keep seeing him like this, so open and vulnerable, so on display.

“Mhm,” Jon says, and his voice is higher, softer, than Martin is used to. “It feels--” He shudders and his hips push hard against the stuffed bear again. “It feels really good.” He sounds so _innocent_ like this, and Martin is entirely caught off guard by the way that makes his blood pound harder. 

“It's okay,” Martin says, resting a gentle hand on his shoulder and then, when Jon does not flinch away from the touch or ask him to stop, slowly slides it up and down his back, soothing. The flush to Jon's skin has spread all the way down his chest. “It's okay, you've got it, give yourself what you need, okay?”

“I don't know why it feels so good,” Jon says, his voice wavering, and all at once Martin understands exactly what Jon is trying for here. He sucks in a sharp breath. 

“It's okay, baby,” Martin repeats, still trying to soothe. “You like the teddy, right?” He slips into character himself without even meaning to. “Does it feel good?” 

Jon nods, his lower lip caught between his teeth. “Yes,” he says, his thighs tightening on the stuffie again. “You weren't here, so I--” He doesn't finish. Breaks off into a soft little whimper, his hands tightening in the sheets. Martin is struck speechless with it for a moment, the thought of Jon doing this because Martin wasn't here, because he missed him. He aches with it. 

“Come on,” Martin says finally, his hand going to the toy to help press it tight against Jon, and Jon outright moans, his eyes going unfocused for a moment. “That's it. Good boy.” He is so hard it hurts, but he cannot take his eyes off Jon for a second. Jon shivers at the praise and fucks against the bear harder and faster, his whole body shaking with it. 

“Daddy, I don't--” Jon says, still in that soft voice, and Martin has let go, has to press the heel of his hand hard against himself not to come on the spot. Oh, god. He's thought about this once or twice, in the privacy of his own room with a hand curled around his cock, but hearing it from Jon's mouth is something else entirely. “It feels weird--”

“I, I'll explain later, I promise,” Martin says, trying to keep it soft and affectionate and trying not to let his voice shake with it. “Just let yourself feel good for now, okay? Just let your stuffie make you feel good. You're almost there.” 

“It feels so tingly,” Jon whimpers, and then he clutches on tight to the stuffed bear with both hands and Martin can see the way his climax shudders through him, his thighs clenching around the toy over and over as he lets out a little whine and his eyes squeeze shut. Martin turns away for a moment while he has his eyes closed, and he barely gets a hand on himself before he comes, still listening to the little hitching breaths Jon makes as he comes down. 

Martin curls up around him, after, petting through his hair and making small, soft, soothing noises, and after a while, Jon seems to come back to himself. “Sorry,” he says quietly, in a voice much closer to the one Martin is used to. 

“Sorry for what?” Martin asks.

“I, ah, I—sprung that one on you, a bit.” 

“A bit,” Martin agrees with a little laugh, still so shell-shocked. “I didn't know you... I know you have the bear, but I didn't know if there was—more to that for you, I guess? I did like it, though, but maybe we should, um, talk about that a little more? I don't want to push you too far if you want there to be a next time.”

“Do we have to?” Jon asks, fingers running nervously through his hair, and he sighs at the look on Martin's face. “Yes, yes, alright. I suppose—I know trauma responses can be... complicated, and that that is probably a factor in some of this—to be clear, this isn't something I am doing to _hurt_ myself—but sometimes it's.” He sighs again. “Can you close the curtains? I think this would be easier to discuss in the dark.” 

Martin nods and unwinds himself from Jon to get up and close the curtains, leaving the room shrouded in darkness, before curling back in around him. “Is it that you want to be—little?” Martin asks. He has a distant memory of seeing something like this online, once or twice, although he doesn't think that was in a sexual context. 

He can just barely see the way Jon's face twists in the low light. “Yes and no. I think given my—complicated relationship with sexuality sometimes it's easier to pretend I know nothing about it. That I'm of an age where I wouldn't be _expected_ to know anything about it, and I'm being... not taken advantage of, exactly, but a bit like that. That someone I trust is touching me in ways that feel good, but aren't something I understand. And sometimes it's just—nice to feel small and taken care of. I know that's all... a bit much to ask for.” 

Martin lets the words roll around in his mind for a moment. “You, um, you want me to--” God, it's so much harder to say it outside the heat of the moment. “To be your daddy?” 

Jon gives a small nod and looks away from Martin. “That's part of it, yes. You can—approach it as though I'm just playing innocent if it's more comfortable for you.” 

“But that's not what you're doing, in your head, right?”

“No.”

“How--” 

“I don't think you want to hear how young I'm pretending to be,” Jon says dryly, still staring intently at the sheets. “Or that I'm imagining the, ah, “daddy” thing in a more—” He hesitates again. 

Martin blinks. “Oh, like I'm _actually_ your--” 

“Too much?” Jon asks. He sounds very tired.

“We can try it,” Martin says. He swallows hard. Part of him feels like he _should_ be bothered by it, but it's still just Jon. Lovely, prickly Jon, who is letting down his walls in a way he's never done with Martin before. If it was just something to do for Jon, he could still do it. He knows that. But he lets himself think, just for a moment, about what it would be like—to have Jon squirming underneath him, wide-eyed and pleading, asking him, “daddy, why does it feel like that when you touch me?” and he has to close his eyes against the rush of arousal that goes through him. “I—yeah, let's.” 

*

“Daddy?” a small voice says from Martin's left, and he blinks awake all at once. Jon's side of the bed is cold, and he's standing by the edge of the bed instead, wrapped in a blanket, his teddy clutched between his fingers. His eyes are very wide. He bites his lip, staring at Martin as Martin begins to sit up, blinking the sleep from his eyes.

“Are you okay, Jon?” Martin asks, giving him a smile and trying to gather his thoughts enough to slip into the right headspace for this. 

“Just—had a nightmare,” Jon says, and even his voice sounds young like this. “Can I come sleep with you?” 

All Martin can do is nod, his heart already pounding at the thought. They'd discussed how they wanted this to go, but it's one thing to know and another for it to suddenly be happening. It's already overwhelming just to imagine what this will be like. He takes a deep breath and tries to pull himself together. An immediate response of arousal isn't the _point_ of the scene. 

“Of course,” Martin says gently, scooting to the side and pulling the covers back so Jon and his bear can slide in alongside him. “Do you want to talk about it?” He's not expecting the answer to be _yes_ , not with what he knows about Jon's nightmares, but it's still something that feels right to ask. 

Jon shakes his head and curls in beside Martin, his body pressed all along Martin's front, and Martin wraps an arm around his middle and draws him in closer until they're tucked tight together. Jon is still minutely shaking, and Martin strokes a soothing hand up and down his chest, letting his fingers linger as he does. “It's okay, baby,” he says into Jon's ear, and Jon shivers, squirming a little harder against him. He lets Jon be lulled by it for a long while, careful, platonic sweeps of his hand, until he lets his fingers dip lower to run along the waistband of Jon's pyjamas. 

“Daddy?” Jon asks, twisting his head around to look at Martin with big eyes. “What are you doing?” 

Arousal throbs in Martin all at once. How confused Jon sounds. The little way he moves away from the touch and then back into it like he's not sure which one he wants to do. “Just making you feel better,” Martin says intently, and then follows up it up with, “It's okay. Be a good boy and relax for me.”

“Okay,” Jon says, relaxing into the movement, and Martin's fingers tuck further under his waistband. He sucks in a sharp breath when he meets bare skin. Jon must have shaved, earlier; there is no hair in the way as his fingers begin to gently stroke circles in the skin just above Jon's cock. 

“That feels--” Jon sucks in a sharp breath. “That feels nice,” he says, his voice a little wobbly, and Martin smiles and ever so slowly slides his hand fully into Jon's pyjamas, two fingers rubbing against his entrance to gather slick. Jon is so wet already, and he shivers with the motion. 

“See,” Martin says, his fingers still just on the edge of penetration but not pressing in, “your body likes what we're doing. I'm going to do a little more, okay, baby? Just hold on tight to your bear for me.” 

Jon nods, looking at Martin again with wide eyes. “What are you going to—oh!” He squeezes his eyes shut and holds on tight to his bear as two of Martin's fingers come up to either side of his cock and begin to slowly stroke the sensitive little nub of it, his whole body squirming with it. He tips his head back and Martin leans down to softly kiss his hair as his fingers move, feeling with his whole body the way Jon has started to shake against him. “Feels weird, daddy,” Jon says, and Martin's other arm tightens around his middle, keeping him held in place. 

“Your heart is going so fast,” Martin says softly, trying not to rut up against Jon even as his own blood burns with arousal at Jon's little movements against him. “That means you like this, baby. Can you, can you tell me how you're feeling?”

“Hot,” Jon says in a wavering voice that fades out to a soft moan as Martin's fingers continue to work at his cock. “My--” He takes a deep breath, his face going a bit redder. “Feels weird in my tummy when you touch me there. Are you sure it's okay?”

“I promise,” Martin says, kissing Jon's hair again as his hand works faster. “It's going to feel a little funny, and then it will feel really good, okay?” He wants to use his mouth on Jon, wants to spread him out and lick at him until Jon is squirming and crying underneath him, his hesitant little voice fading out into nothing, but that's for later. They need to work up to it. 

“Remember what you were doing with your teddy last week?” Martin asks, and Jon nods, his face going redder. “Move your hips like that for me, okay?” 

“Okay,” Jon says, crying out as he moves into Martin's touch, the motions of his hips clumsy but intent, starting to chase his pleasure. Every movement wrings a new noise out of him, and Martin can feel the way his thighs are starting to shake; he's close. He looks up at Martin with big, panicked eyes, his mouth opening soundlessly. 

“That's it, baby,” Martin says, finally breaking and letting himself rock up against Jon's body, his whole body thrumming with arousal. “I know you're scared, but you just have to hold on, okay? You can do it. Be a big boy for me.” 

Jon nods, squeezing his eyes closed and holding on with both arms to his bear as he shudders through his climax, the little noises he's making half-muffled by the soft fabric, and when his hips finally still, he looks up at Martin with a little smile on his face. “Did I do it right, daddy?” he asks, and Martin's cock _throbs_ with it. 

“You were perfect,” Martin confirms, and Jon _beams_ with it. He rocks up against Jon's backside a little harder, holding Jon tight to his body so he can feel it, and Jon frowns a little, biting his lip.

“What's that?” he asks, and if he's not careful Martin is going to lose it before Jon even _does_ anything. He has to take a long, steadying breath before he answers.

“You got Daddy a little excited, baby,” he says, nudging Jon to roll over so that he's facing Martin. He takes Jon's hand in his and guides it down between their bodies, heat going through him as Jon tries to pull his fingers away just for a second. “You sounded so lovely when you came for me like that, I couldn't help it.” 

“Oh,” Jon says, his eyes wide as Martin unwinds Jon's fingers from his own and fits them around the shape of Martin's cock. “It feels--” He rubs more than strokes, experimental, feeling the way Martin's briefs move against the hard skin. Even that feels so good Martin barely bites back a moan, his whole body over-sensitized and thrumming. 

“I'll teach you how to touch it like a big boy,” Martin promises, pulling back just enough to pull his briefs down and then guiding Jon's hand to curl around his cock again. “Don't you want to make your daddy feel good too?” 

Jon nods, catching his lower lip between his teeth as his hand slowly begins to move with Martin's guidance. “Am I doing it right?” he asks, stroking Martin slowly, his eyes flicking between Martin's face and the precome beading at the tip of Martin's cock. “What is that?” 

“It means--” Martin makes a soft little noise, pushing up into the touch. “It means I like this a lot,” he says. “Go ahead and taste it, baby.” He stops guiding Jon's hand and slides his hand into Jon's hair instead, slowly guiding his head down. Just enough pressure to be a suggestion. 

“Okay,” Jon says in a small voice, and he bends down to gently lick over the head of Martin's cock, his hand still wrapped around the base. “It's really big, Daddy,” he says, nudging against Martin's hand on his head, and Martin holds him steady. 

“Just lick it like ice cream,” Martin says, petting at the soft strands of Jon's hair. “You don't have to get all of it in your mouth tonight. We'll need to train you for that, baby.” 

“Train me?” Jon asks, and then Martin nudges his head downwards again and he opens his lips, suckling at the head of Martin's cock, his tongue clumsy on the underside, and when Martin guides him again he starts moving his hand in tandem. Martin is already close; this isn't going to take long.

“Yeah,” Martin says, shifting his hips up into Jon's mouth just a little. Giving him more. Watching the way Jon's lips stretch around it and the tiny little noise of protest he makes at the movement. “Once you're a big boy, you'll have to be able to take it in your throat, so it'll be good to start training you now when you're little so it's easier.” He can barely believe half the words are coming out of his mouth, and his own cock throbs at them, looking down at Jon so wide-eyed and nervous below him, his mouth red and wet around Martin's cock. 

“Is--” Jon pulls off for just a moment, breathing heavily and licking his lips as if to chase the taste of Martin. “Will I need to do anything else, daddy?” 

“Put it back in your mouth, baby,” Martin says, a gentle rebuke, and Jon nods and lets Martin fill his mouth up again. “When you're ready, I'll put this inside your hole, too, but we're going to have to practice a _lot_ for that so it'll feel good and not hurt, okay?” Jon makes a small, nervous little noise around Martin's cock and Martin moans as the vibrations of it skitter through him. He's close.

He gently guides Jon up and off his cock, gripping the base tight, and when he murmurs, “close your eyes and stick your tongue out, okay?” Jon complies just in time for Martin to stripe his cheeks and tongue with come, his whole body aching with the force of it. Jon keeps his mouth open until Martin tells him he can close it again, staring up at him with big, shocked eyes, and then experimentally swallows. 

“It doesn't taste very good,” he says, and then flushes. “Sorry, daddy.” 

“It's okay,” Martin says, petting through Jon's hair gently. “You'll get used to how it tastes, okay? Let's go get you a nice bath; we got you all messy, huh.” 

“Uh huh,” Jon says, and lets himself be led, lets Martin arrange him in the tub and fill it up with hot water and bubbles, and it's as the water starts to come up over his knees that Martin can see him come back into himself. His eyes narrower, his expression less hesitant, the tension fading out of his limbs all at once. He looks over at Martin and smiles as Martin starts to carefully clean his face off with a wet cloth. 

“Was that okay?” Martin asks, a little knot of worry in his chest. They'd talked about it, about what Jon wanted Martin to say and the kinds of things he might say in return, but all at once it's rushing back to him all of the things he _did_ say. God. His face is going red just at the memory. How much he liked Jon so small and squirming in his arms, the way he coaxed him through it all, every little noise of hesitation Jon made. 

Jon seems to sense a bit of the apprehension in him, and he reaches out with a soapy hand to cup the side of Martin's face. “I don't know that I'll be able to look myself in the mirror for a week, at least,” he begins, still smiling, “but yes, that was—better than I imagined.” 

“You and me both,” Martin says, squeezing his eyes shut. “Do you—do you want anything else once we've gotten you a bath? I can get you something to drink, or if you need a cuddle or something, maybe, or--” 

“Martin,” Jon says, his tone impossibly fond. “I'm alright. I think being close would help, and I'd like my, ah. Well. My.” He means his bear, Martin knows, from the way he immediately goes shy with it. 

“You can say your teddy,” Martin says, reaching for the shampoo so he can start working into Jon's hair. 

“Yes, alright, my _teddy_ ,” Jon says, sighing, as though he doesn't sleep with it every night and didn't just hold onto it for security while Martin got him off. “Are _you_ alright?” 

Martin lets himself properly think about it for a moment. The knot of anxiety in his chest is easing, and underneath, his whole body still buzzes faintly with the lingering remnants of his arousal, but mostly he just feels—good. Relaxed. Deeply content at seeing how wrecked Jon still is. He starts massaging the shampoo slowly into Jon's hair, careful to keep it out of his eyes, humming as he works. 

“Yeah, I'm good,” he says. “Do you, um, you do want to try it again, right?”

“We need to _train me_ , remember?” Jon says, and Martin goes red again. “Maybe... not for a while yet, but, yes.” His voice raises up, the soft, hesitant note from earlier creeping in. “I'll let you know when I'm ready, _daddy_.” 

“ _Jon_ , I _just_ came.” Martin whines, clenching his thighs together, and scowls in mock-disapproval as Jon begins to laugh.


End file.
